Mindgate 2

By Ray Harris

This is the sequel to Mingate 1. As promised, here is the following collection of SF stories, each with its own original ideas and/or themes. Here, we explore concepts of humanity as well as alien intelligence.
An original concept in this follow up series, is the Author’s personal experiences that lead to extraordinary questions! In the process, you will also get a glimpse of the Author’s personal life.
Again, Ray Harris promises a follow on to Mingate 2, so that you have much more to look forward to!
Mindgate 3 gets even more personal with the Author, through some experiences he swears were other-worldly, and he uses these experiences to propose some astonishing concepts!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Harris
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463448373

Book preview

Mindgate

By

Ray Harris

Copyright 2020 Ray Harris

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for any recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Foreword

Here is Mindgate 2, the sequel to Mindgate 1, as promised.

These two collections of my SF short stories hardly makes a dent in the reams of work I've done - some of it dating back more than thirty years. The poor things have been patiently waiting for me to get my ass into gear. I have an excuse - I was far too busy making a living to do much more than write these stories. When I finally decided it was time to get them out there, I was surprised to see that there were more than eight hundred of them crouching in their boxes! So for those that are hoping for sequels to this collection - chances are you'll get them in abundance... that is if I live long enough! Ha, ha!

I do hope you will enjoy the variety I have included in this sequel, and I hope you will forgive me for the few bits of technology in the stories that are old news now, but hadn't even been thought of then.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my second cousin, Leon Hyman and his wife, Theresa.

Leon is a Metallurgical Scientist by profession, but is highly qualified in many other diverse fields as well – he was not only one of the prime motivators of my SF ideas, but a great source of reference to assorted facts and cross references. I am forever indebted to him!

Theresa is a housewife, but has been Leon’s partner in every sense, participating in hundreds of field trips into peculiar places, as well as being a sounding board for his many unusual theories on a whole range of subjects. She too, was one the greatest influences in my own theories, particularly ones surrounding reality and reason for existence. My everlasting thanks for her insights!

To give you an idea of how very different these people were from your average person, I will never forget the first time I visited their double story home. It was filled from floor to ceiling with unusual, rare and interesting artefacts of every sort. One of these was Orpheus – a human skeleton (Strandloper) who resided in their coffee table… which was of course, a coffin! Leon was licensed to keep human remains (of which he had many), due to his archaeological digs – an activity he partook in apart from his job as a metallurgist, and other unusual interests.

They now live in isolation, somewhere in the Karoo – a poorly populated semi-desert region in South Africa.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOBER MANOEUVRE

IS IT A BIRD? IS IT A PLANE? NO, IT'S...

MINDGATE

SILVER LADY

THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS

EARTH RESERVE

FLAT EARTH

THERE IS ALWAYS ANOTHER WAY

MANS BEST FRIEND

WATERWORLD

NOT THAT WAY - THIS WAY!

Boober Manoeuvre

Astronaut Percy Gulliver glanced up at the spectacle of diaphanous white clouds swirling against the sapphire-blue backdrop of the Earth, without really seeing it.

The two of them had done this trip a hundred times before, and the novelty of orbital insertion had long since worn off. Besides, he still felt a bit nauseous from the incredible 'G' forces that the Pacific Orbital Rail-Hoist capsule induced.

The Rail-Hoist had long ago replaced the earlier expensive bulky shuttle launch practice -nowadays, orbital capsules were catapulted into orbit by means of kilometre-high elevated magneto rails, aptly nicknamed 'Slingshots'.

Ten of these imposing 'Slingshot' launchers dotted the Hawaiian islands of Palima and Kahilipale. There'd been a strong public outcry against these scenic intrusions, but because the atmosphere there was thinner than anywhere else on Earth, and therefore closer to the equatorial orbit needed for the satellites, these structures had been railroaded through. Another reason for the choice of location of these launchers was that there, the Earth's rotation of over a thousand miles per hour, took over where momentum wore off, boosting the slinging of the capsules into orbital position and thus reducing the period of atmospheric friction the capsules were subjected to. As a result, greater payloads could be shot into orbit, allowing for cheap commercially viable orbital spaceports, and servicing them.

Suddenly destinations like the Moon and Mars became commercially realistic propositions. Before long too, the orbital spaceports sported their own launching platforms for atomic powered inter-planetary rockets - the rockets themselves assembled in situ from pre-manufactured modules carried up by the Slingshot capsules.

Although still in its infancy, planetary travel had become a reality, and a commercially viable; for a mere half-million dollars, one could have a month-long holiday at a prime resort on the rim of Vallis Marineris on Mars, or, for a paltry two hundred thousand, secure a two-week stay at the plush Lunar Port, where one could enjoy spectacular views of Earth.

Unfortunately, as with all success stories, inevitable hidden problems emerged after the fact. As with the skyways of Earth, the orbital plane soon became cluttered. A myriad scraps of human-discarded technology; defunct, outdated as well as operating strategic satellites, obsolete capsules, the last abandoned shuttle, and a trail of debris that encircled the earth like one of the rings of Saturn. Added to this, were the orbiting spaceports, the service pods, as well as the arriving and departing capsules, pods and rockets.

'Pod jockeys', as the Service Astronauts were called, cursed as they dodged these flying offcasts to get to their destinations.

Bogey at ten o'clock! Toady Privett, Percy's co-pilot warned.

Engaging the starboard control rockets, he accelerated fractionally, jinking out the way of an old rocket stage.

Bloody hell! he complained, watching the offending object recede as it slowly turned end-over- end. I wish someone would clear up this crap!

Hmmm, was Toady's only comment. He'd heard the same complaint so many times it didn't register anymore. Drop-off point coming up, he informed Percy, incoming locator signal... engage Auto Response.

Auto Response engaged, announced Percy, payload transfer activated. Ready when you are.

Toady sighted along the locating instrument - it looked similar to a WW2 bomb aimer's apparatus.

Right, two degrees... left, one... no, no, too much. Come back point zero five... a touch to the right... yes, fire pack!

The craft jolted slightly as the ten-ton supply pack hurtled off to rendezvous with the grapplers at the cargo hatch, which grinned at them like the maw of a shark.

Is she on? asked Percy over his shoulder, jinking past another piece of space junk.

Dead on! declared Toady, reaching forward to tap in his log.

Phew! Thank God that went without a hitch, said Percy with relief. Old Gabriel hates it when we miss... loves to remind us it costs an arm and a leg to retrieve bounced packs.

Speaking of which, reminded Toady, you'd better make your report.

Right, said Percy sourly, keying the mike, S.X.600 PST to Omega Base... S.X. 600 PST to Omega Base... do you receive?

Omega Base, affirmative, came the response, the radio-wave twisting strangely.

Percy glanced at Toady with a frown. What the hell was that? I haven't heard distortion like that in over ten years.

Toady shrugged. Probably solar flare, he mumbled, preoccupied with his data entry.

Shouldn't happen, Percy shook his head in puzzlement. All the radios have compensators.

When Toady didn't answer, he turned back to the console, Omega Base, S.X. 600 PST logging skypack A.Z. 0076 at 03h00.

Roger that, came the reply, the distortion worse this time. Then, S.X. 600 PST, what the heck's going on up there... we can hardly hear you - getting strange radio warp.

Just what we need, growled Percy, keying the mike, Omega Base - you're distorting too... possible radio fault. Not sure if it's on your side or ours.

Roger S.X. 600...suuuueeeee... look into it.

Watch it, Perce, bogeys at six o'clock! Toady indicated with a cant of his head.

Percy's forehead crumpled into a frown. Since when do bogeys run in formation?

Formation? Toady looked at him as if he'd gone nuts What the hell you talking about?

That, Percy pointed.

Toady followed the line of Percy's finger and stiffened, Shit, what is that?

I don't know, said Percy, trying to recall having seen space junk in patterns before. Failing, he said, Never seen anything like it... could it be the military?

Good grief, look at them go! Toady exclaimed, tilting his head back as a flight-formation of over a hundred craft flashed across their viewer.

Holy... began Percy, as they watched them curve around for a re-run, ... Omega Base! Omega Base! he yelped into the mike. Unidentified craft in sector six... about a hundred of them... can you identify... I repeat, can you identify?

Omega Base to S.X. 600 - no craft logged for that sector. Have you suuuuueeeey space sickness?

Negative Omega Base - unidentified craft buzzing us. We've never seen anything like it before!

Suuuuuueeeey... speak to your partner, the return signal squealed.

Toady snatched the mike from Percy Base, this is Astronaut Privitt - confirm no space sickness... sighting is real!

S.X. 600 - what do the craft look like? their question distorting horribly as the craft made another pass.

Wedge-shaped, Base, yelled Toady as the craft split ranks across their orbit. Tail piece lifts up into what looks like a spoiler... no visible portholes or markings. They're surrounded by a tight corona of bluish light.

Too much distortion S. suuuuuuueeeeey... repeat please.

Toady repeated his description with the radio singing a weird song as the swarm made yet another pass.

Percy gripped Toady's shoulder. Hey, Toady... the radio reacts every time they come past - maybe we can contact them!

Toady looked at him uncertainly, then musingly. If it distorts our radio, maybe when we key the mike it causes some sort interference to them too - let's keep on keying it for a while and see what happens.

Toady clicked the mike’s key for thirty seconds and waited to see if there was any effect. There was - one of the craft took up position right next to them, causing their radio to protest shrilly.

Toady and Percy pressed their heads together at the viewer as they gawked at it.

Their radio squawked again, then a garbled voice came through.

They looked at each other, then Toady grabbed the mike. Unidentified craft, unidentified craft, he yelled, his voice tremulous. Please identify yourselves!

The scrunch in the radio signal came again, then a voice came through quite distinctly. Piss off primitives - we're on manoeuvre and you're in the way

Percy and Toady’s faces bore disbelief. Of all the bloody nerve! Toady ground.

He keyed the mike viciously. Omega Base, Omega Base, you won't believe what these bastards have just said to us! He proceeded to repeat the message they'd received.

Er, what was that S.X.600...?

Back to Top

Is it a Bird? Is it a Plane? No, it's...

While it's great fun to speculate on the possibility (or should I say probability?) of extra-terrestrial alien intelligence, what they look like and so forth, it is also expedient I think, to consider the possibility of there being animals or creatures right here on Earth, whose existence we have no knowledge of.

This is not just pie in the sky - I have personally followed an elusive trail of information that led me to discover an animal that no-one, except myself, knows about. After National Geographic rejected my request for a grant to study this creature in its habitat, and in the light of mankind’s tendency to exploit everything he comes across I concluded that perhaps it was just as well that this animal remained unrevealed.

There is also the likelihood of there being creatures of the night that have not been discovered yet, simply due to their unseen nocturnal habits. The sea too, in its vastness, I am sure, will still yield many creatures heretofore unknown. In addition, having been brought up in the wilds of Southern Africa, I have seen many strange things, of which some I have turned into stories.

The following story is based on an idea of mine about one of these undiscovered creatures. This theory was not just sucked from my thumb, but occurred to me after reading some extraordinary accounts of several travellers in history who experienced and discovered things that somehow never made it to the point where they were properly investigated.

At the very least, I hope the following story gets you thinking along those lines, and as time goes on, I am sure that some of what I have said will prove to be prophetic.

The cloud was violently torn apart by the wings of the Piper Seneca, flinging spiralling vortexes behind it.

The pleasant drone of the twin engines was like music to Mike Weaver's ears. He scanned the blanket of cloud cover below as he left the mountainous cumulus that he'd just emerged from, behind him.

Mike had been flying for over ten years, and the spectacle of sun-kissed cloud top with its magical, ever-changing formations, never ceased to fascinate him and fill him with wonder. Alone, high above the earth, he was in his element. He loved being alone up here and, filled with contentment, he whistled a few bars of Creedence's 'Bad Moon Rising'. It wasn't that he was antisocial, far from it, but his alone-time was precious to him and solitude the basis for choosing this profession.

As the Piper was on auto, he was able to tap an accompaniment to his whistling on the console in front of him.

Just ahead he could see the up-thrust of the Mankelekele mountain range where it broke through the cloud cover. This signalled that he'd soon need to be descending to the little airstrip near Nelspruit.

The Mankelekele Mountains, of which this picture is part of, is riddled with caves. The Author has climbed every part of this range, as well as explored many of its grottos.

The town of Nelspruit was near the border between Mozambique and Southern Africa. Although it was ranked as the largest town in the Lowveld area, even so, it was small by any standards. On board Mike had a cargo of medical supplies bound for the town's sole hospital. This was a trip that he made quite frequently as this hospital, which served a vast populous region, required constant replenishment of supplies.

Mike liked to do this trip as it meant that he'd be able to visit his dad, who worked as a farm estate manager a few kilometres outside the town.

Suddenly he noticed something odd just a few kilometres ahead of the plane. A cluster of dark cloudlets were rushing swiftly, moving diagonally to the prevailing wind.

What the hell..?. he muttered, leaning forward as if it would improve his view. Damned peculiar - never seen anything like that before. Must be some sort of cross-wind.

Kicking the plane from auto to manual, he took the Piper down to have a closer look. As he did so, a stray cumulus-mass temporarily obstructed his view, but he just flew through it. As he burst out the other side, the dark cloudlets were a few hundred meters away, and rapidly approaching. To his astonishment, six of the seven cloudlets seemed to dart off in different directions, all in fact, except the one dead-ahead. The distance between them closed in a second and when the encounter came Mike expected to fly straight through it. There was a sudden bang, and the Piper lurched sickeningly.

Ouff! he cried out, as he was viciously thrust against the seat belt with his face ending up close to the console. With the jolt he’d almost smacked into the instrument panel and with a sense of dread, he saw that the instruments for the port wing motor were static. Oh, shit! he exclaimed, immediately looking out to the port wing. It was gone - engine and all!

Jesus wept! he yelled as the plane began to spiral downward. He automatically pulled back on the stick, but the counter-rotation of the remaining engine tightened the plane's spiral even further.

Shit, shit, shit! he groaned. I don't believe this... I don't fucking believe this!

At once, all his piloting skills kicked in, and he frantically manipulated the controls, managing to right the plane for a moment, but then having to do it all again as the spin changed direction.

Fuuuck! he yelled, battling for control - the thought that he was going to die soared in the back of his mind, but he had no time to entertain it.

The Mankelekele Mountain's massive ridge loomed directly in front of him, and it seemed certain that he was only seconds away from slamming into the harsh cliffs ahead.

The Mankelekele is crowned with massive cliffs. While picturesque and a fascinating place to explore, it poses a very real hazard for aircraft.

To his astonishment, a strong up-draught unexpectedly lifted the surviving starboard wing of the Piper, and Mike immediately thrust the remaining engine's throttle fully forward - it was enough to clear him from a head-on with the cliffs by a mere six meters. Although grateful for that, he knew his ordeal was far from over.

As he cleared the cliffs, the up-draught abruptly cut off, and the wing immediately dropped, its tip slamming into a flat rock causing a long shower of sparks. This impact however, was sufficient to jolt the plane just enough to clear the rise immediately ahead, but as it plunged again, the wing struck the trees on the opposite sloping-side. Fortunately they were Kiepersols, not hardwoods, and the wing chopped them down like a scythe as it tore through them. Nevertheless, this collision slowed the plane significantly. Fortune smiled on Mike that day, as the incline of the bush-covered slope he was plunging down was sloping at roughly the same angle his aircraft was pancaking.

Mike’s approach was from the left of this part of the Range, and the slope to the right is what helped him survive the crash.

The plane bellied-down the sandy slope, shredding shrubs as it tore through them. Fortune smiled on Mike once again, because the vegetation and bushes grew denser and more robust on the lower slopes and as the plane continued its rough descent, the assault into this barrier effectively braked the plane. Just when Mike thought it was nearly over, the stub of the wing snagged an exposed boulder, and the battered fuselage flipped onto its back, coming to a halt in a whirling blast of dust, twigs and leaves. Something struck Mikes head, and his world went dark.

A while later he felt that he was flying. Curiously, he was flying without a plane, soaring through the sky like a bird. Then he moved towards a cloud, intending to fly through it. The cloud suddenly developed a face, then a snarling maw filled with shark-like teeth, and it screeched an unearthly sound.

Huuugh! Huuugh! Mike tried to scream himself, but couldn't get his voice going. He felt a massive pressure in his head, and it throbbed mercilessly. His vision faded, then returned, faded, and returned. Hazily he become aware of a tangle of objects in front of him, at first not being able to identify what they were. Full consciousness gradually returned and he realized that he was suspended upside down, restrained only by his seatbelt. Blood had pooled in his head, producing the sensation of pressure. The objects strewn around were fragments of the plane’s wrecked innards and chunks of fuselage, jumbled up with the smashed packages of medical supplies he was meant to have delivered to the Nelspruit hospital.

He mustered his strength and groaned as he clawed the catch on his seatbelt. After a while he a managed to release it and fell headlong into the clutter below.

Fuuuck me... he mumbled, glumly tongue-exploring a pulpy gash in the fleshy tissue of his inner cheek, as his mouth filled with blood. Trying not to swallow, he spat it out. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand his mind revved - stunned at the miracle of his survival.

He surveyed his surroundings. Aah, jeeze! What a mess, he thought sadly, realizing he was not going to make this delivery.

Then he smelt leaking fuel. That galvanized him to action, sharpish. He crabbed awkwardly over the piles of twisted metal and tumbled, broken packages, slamming his funny bone against a metal strut protruding from the wreckage. Ouch! he yelped from the shockwave of pain, although still pressing forward to the door. Fortunately it still worked, albeit upside down. He swung it open and tumbled out onto the mangled grass below. As quickly as he could, he stumbled away from the remains of the plane, fearful of fire. It was only after he felt he was out of harm's way that he stood up and first saw the blood blooming on his shirt and pants.

Sitting on a rock at a safe distance from the plane, he unbuttoned his bloody shirt. Looking down, he saw a deep abrasion across his chest where the seatbelt had cut into him. Although it was painful, it wasn’t serious. His leg was another matter. His jeans were torn just above the right knee, and there was a gash three inches long and a half inch deep in his thigh. It was still bleeding, but fortunately not overly much. All the same, he knew that if he didn't bind it up, a dozen steps would have it bleeding profusely. He knew the plane contained any number of bandages, but he wasn't going to risk going back in there with fuel in the vicinity. Instead, with some effort he managed to rip his jeans along the seams, folding back the two lower halves to roughly bind the wound, gritting his teeth as he did so.

Holy Moses! he ground out, surveying the plane's crumpled fuselage. Then his eyes retraced the violent passage it had made through the undergrowth, and he spotted the wing and starboard engine lying mangled on the ridge. There is a God after all! he grinned warily.

Back to Top

Gingerly, he probed his body, searching for any other wounds of concern. Besides a number of bruises, there were no other injuries and best of all, no broken bones. He presumed he looked a mess though, knowing that his hair was matted with blood, which had flowed there while he’d hung upside-down.

Standing up unsteadily, he gazed about, trying to get his bearings. Fortunately, he'd grown up in this vicinity and had spent every school holiday exploring the bush around these mountains, so he was pretty sure that he'd soon find his way to a road.

To get to higher ground and to find his bearings, he staggered up the corridor that the fuselage had ripped through the undergrowth to the ridge and the site of the initial impact. From this viewpoint he looked back and realized that it was not very likely a search party would spot the fuselage and besides, he wasn't going to stick around and wait for that to happen.

Mike sized up the area, immediately establishing where he was. The ridge he was on sloped down quite steeply to a valley where some sort of vegetable crops were being grown in a field, and bordering this field he could see the vegetable dehydration factory that, many years back, his dad had helped to set up. He knew that the highway ran past the field of crops, near the Sudwala caves turnoff, so he set off down the ridge.

As he limped along, his mind returned to the moment of impact in the sky, wondering what on earth it was that he'd hit.

'Was it a bird?' he deliberated. 'Unlikely. Perhaps another plane? Also unlikely – if it had been it would have had to be an unscheduled flight, and anyway, I would have picked it up on my radar. So what then- a weather balloon? No, too flimsy to rip off a wing. Perhaps a missile of some sort?' His country was being targeted by terrorists, he knew, 'But here, in this out of the way place? Mmm. Again, unlikely.'

He cast his mind back to the strange clouds and their even stranger behaviour. He paused for a moment to scan the sky, half expecting to see them again, but all he saw was a clear sky with a just a few cumulus scattered about. Quite mystified, he shook his head and limped on.

'Saw nothing other than that damned dusky cloudlet,' he reflected. 'Water vapour. But it was as if the bloody thing was solid. But that's crazy... isn't it?'

Reaching the verge of the vegetable fields, he stopped briefly to rest his leg and saw that the crop was of sweet potato. Skirting the edge of the field, he came to an embankment just above the main road. His leg was throbbing now, and he scowled at the blood seepage through his makeshift bandage. Damned thing was bleeding again.

'Oh well,’ he thought with resignation, 'can't be helped. I'll get it sorted soon enough.'

Finding a natural cutting in the embankment, he stumbled down it. The loose gravel rolled and slipped under him, and he fell on his ass, sliding all the way down. His momentum was such that he was forced to run into the road to slow himself.

As he did this, a silver Mercedes almost ran him down. The driver responding just in time to swerve around him, hit his brakes and bring the vehicle to a slithering, swerving stop on the gravel apron. A window slid down and the irate driver stuck his head out. Hey man, are you crazy? I could have killed you! he yelled through the cloud of dust.

Sorry sir, Mike apologized as he limped towards him. I've just crashed my plane, and the couple of kays I’ve walked have disorientated me a bit. Could I cadge a lift to town with you? I know I look a mess, but...

The driver suddenly noticed the state he was in and the blood-soaked clothes. Jesus! he yelped. "You do look a sight! he climbed out of the car and opened the rear door. Here, jump in - you need to get to a hospital sharpish, man!"

Thanks, Mike managed, as he sank into the plush rear seat. I hope I don't get any blood on your upholstery.

The man waved his hand dismissively. Nothing that can't be cleaned. Main thing is to get you some help! he closed the door for Mike and jumped back into the driver's seat, promptly manoeuvring the vehicle back onto the tarmac and flooring it.

Mike sank his head against the headrest. Man, this feels good! he said. Names Mike, by the way. Mike Weaver.

Pleased to meet you Mike, the man said, mine's Prost... Dennis Prost. The image in the mirror revealed a clean cut face in its mid-forties.

So what happened?

I run my own commercial outfit, Mike informed him, mostly delivery of light equipment and such. I had a load of medical supplies for the very hospital you're taking me to. I don't think they're going to be too chuffed when I tell them their consignment is lying shredded on top of the mountain!

"So what caused you